Letter from a Hero
by Izzy the Whimsical
Summary: Sherlock is sick. One-shot. WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH!


"John, I think I'm sick…" Sherlock says. He's running a fever and is coughing every few seconds. John guides him to the couch and has him lay down, wrapping him in a blanket and bringing him soup.

**_A couple months later..._**

John walks in the door of the flat, worried. Sherlock hadn't gotten better. In fact, he had gotten worse. His coughing had become more violent, and specks of blood had begun coming up as well. When he locked the door, John turns to see a paler-than-usual Sherlock lying on the couch, not moving.

"Sherlock! Are you okay?" he shouts as he runs over to kneel beside his friend. Sherlock jumps a bit and scowls, saying hoarsely, "John, calm down, I'm okay." His voice sounds weaker than usual, and John panics a bit. "Can you call Lestrade? He's said cases have been piling up." John scowls at Sherlock, calming down a bit, but still extremely worried for his friend. "Sherlock, you're in no condition to be solving cases." Sherlock simply scowls, rolling over and pouting.

**_A couple weeks later..._**

Sherlock had seemed to be getting better, so John had let him start solving cases again. They were on a particularly difficult one, since the criminal refused to be captured, and it was hard to run in the snow that was falling quickly. They were running swiftly, and John didn't notice Sherlock's too-heavy breathing. He didn't notice the pain in his friend's eyes. He didn't notice when Sherlock collapsed, he was too attentive on the criminal being caught by Lestrade. He didn't notice until Lestrade shouted out in shock, glimpsing Sherlock. "SHERLOCK!" John yelled when he finally saw, rushing up beside his friend and immediately crouching beside him.

"Well, hello, John," Sherlock says, smiling. He was practically white, his eyes dulling quickly and a bit of blood coming out of his mouth. "No, Sherlock, no. Don't do this," John sobs, looking into his friends dying eyes. "London needs you. You're a hero! We'll take you to the hospital and you'll get better! Does that sound good?"

Sherlock looks at John, smiling. "How's Mrs. Hudson? And Mycroft? And Lestrade, and Molly?" Sherlock asks quietly, the smile not dropping off of his face. John nods, saying, "They're fine! All waiting for you to stand up and get better, of course!" John smiles, sadness seeping into his false happiness. Sherlock nods, looking glad as he looks around at the people who had gathered. Anderson and Donovan even look worried as they gaze down on Sherlock. He looks back at John. "That's good. Though I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. John, when you get to the flat, look under the couch." Sherlock seems happy. "And, John? One more thing."

John is sobbing freely now, and he says, "Sherlock, you aren't dying! You'll go back to the flat yourself, and we'll all have a whale of a time listening to you play the violin… and…" He trails off into more sobs, not able to control the crying. Sherlock shushes him, saying very, very weakly, "John, just one more thing. Please, just don't make me into a hero. Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one." Sherlock smiles one last time, and that's it. Those words are the last the genius will ever say as his eyes slide shut and his pulse halts.

Everyone has tears in their eyes, even Anderson. They all go into a mad rush, calling an ambulance, calling help, anyone, as John stays next to his too-peaceful appearing friend. The snow collects on Sherlock's dark hair and pale skin, and John's crying becomes shocked and grieving as he blames the entire thing on himself. Finally, someone comes over and pulls John away.

**A YEAR LATER**

John stands in front of Sherlock's grave, knowing it was true this time, that Sherlock would never come back. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, and even Anderson and Donovan are with him. He holds the note that had been in an envelope under the couch. He hadn't had the heart to read it until now, a year later, and he decided he'd read it to everyone.

John clears his throat, and begins speaking, sounding sad. "We're here to read Sherlock's last letter, and we'll begin now." He unfolds the letter, looking at Sherlock's handwriting and tears already begin to form in his eyes, but he clears his throat and reads:

_Dear John,_

_ I'm most likely dead if you're reading this. Yes, I could make that deduction quite easily since I know I won't be coming back to the flat today, one way or another. I'm sorry, but I lied about getting better. I just couldn't sit around anymore, and I was dying slowly. You were set on believing I'd get better, and I couldn't tell you otherwise. It would break my heart as well as yours, and I'd be faced with having to truly accept it._

_ Tell Mycroft I'm sorry. I wish I could have been a better brother, maybe we could have gotten along better without so many petty fights. He was the best brother I could have asked for; he always protected me, though it did seem annoying all the time. I hope he's alright; I would have been devastated if he was gone. He may very well have been the reason I didn't die long ago, back as a teenager._

_ Tell Mrs. Hudson, thank you for everything; the flat, the food, trying to take care of me, all of that. She was a great landlady. Ask her to maybe give you a discount on the flat; I don't want you ending up on the street._

_ Tell Lestrade to have a good life. Tell him not to worry about his rubbish ex-wife; she isn't worth it, and he has some investigating to do! You two could team up and be the best detectives in London, easily replacing me._

_ Tell Molly, I'm so, so sorry. I should have treated her better; she was excellent to me and I treated her terribly. Maybe she'll get a raise, that'd be nice. She deserves it._

_ Hell, tell Anderson and Donovan to be happy, and have fun. Give them a raise or something, I might as well be nice if I'm dying. They will surely become successful; I've seen it in them, I just wouldn't admit it._

_ And John, please don't be sad. You'll be okay, I'm sure. You can help Lestrade solve cases. Keep the flat; it'd be a waste to abandon it. I've left some money in my bank account to help you pay for a while. You know where to find my card. Don't hurt yourself or anything like that; I wouldn't forgive myself. I might kill myself again, wherever I may be._

_ I sincerely mean all of the things I've written; I was too stubborn and cruel in life, I see it now. Too bad I can't redeem myself in any way besides this letter. I wish I didn't have to go. I'll miss you all, and I hope you all have wonderful lives. Goodbye._

_ Sherlock Holmes_

John finishes reading just as he sees a silent tear fall onto the page and smudge the writing. He hadn't realized he was crying. He looks up at everyone else, seeing shocked and sad faces looking back at him. He sees the engraving on the tombstone, reading it for the hundredth time:

_Sherlock Holmes_

_A great friend, human, hero,_

_ and the best detective that has ever and will ever live._

John releases his tears, breaking down as memories of his best friend flood into his mind, and he can't help collapsing in sobs, everyone crowding around him and comforting him even as tears flow silently down their own faces. Sherlock's grave stands over them, causing more sadness.

Eventually all the things in the letter did happen; just as Sherlock wanted. John raises awareness and now there is a city-wide day for Sherlock, on the day he died. He was truly a hero, and nobody could be convinced otherwise.

**_The End_**


End file.
